Night Terrors
by CorvetteClaire
Summary: Harry dreams of Azkaban. SLASH Warning! Rated R for violence.


**_Author's Note:_** This is just a short, angsty bit of romance - Draco would call it sentimental drivel - that I wrote when I was suppposed to be working on my HP Epic. It occupies the same universe as "Thicker than Blood" and "Adamant and Starlight," but it is NOT a sequel, and you don't have to read my other fics to follow the storyline. I hope you enjoy it!

-- Claire

**_  
Night Terrors_**

He was cold; colder than he had ever been in his life. So cold that his bones ached with it and his mind limped in icy darkness. It was the cold of the dementors' breath, the cold of utter despair and pure evil, soaked into the stones beneath him, thick in the air that clogged his lungs. It was the spirit of this dreadful place made tangible. The soul of every wizard who had gone mad and died within these walls.

Azkaban.

He had turned that name over and over in his mind through countless nights, imagining Sirius imprisoned here, imagining Hagrid shut in one of these bleak, dreadful cells. He had awoken time and again in a cold sweat with those images burning behind his eyelids. But nothing – no nightmare, no hallucination – could begin to approach the reality.

Harry sat huddled in the corner of his cell, his body pulled into a tight knot of pain, shivering hard enough to make his bones rattle. He was afraid, angry, grieving, desperate. But more than anything, he was cold.

A fresh scream tore the air, bringing a murmur of pain from Harry. He knew that voice, though he had never heard it utter such a sound before today, and he heard the desperation in it. The scream faded, and blessed silence descended upon him again. He closed his eyes, lips moving in a voiceless plea.

_Don't leave me, Draco. I'm still here, and I need you. You can't go without me. Please, Draco…_

Help would come, Harry knew. Dumbledore would not abandon them to the mercies of Voldemort and his minions. At any moment, squads of wizards would descend upon the prison, wands blazing, to blast their way inside and free the handful of soldiers trapped here. Help would come. But would it come in time for Draco?

There was another tearing scream, and the bang of a spell striking flesh and stone. Harry sobbed and buried his face in his bent knees. Part of him prayed that he was wrong – that it was not Draco being tortured just within his hearing – but none of the alternatives were much easier to bear. Hermione? Ron? Neville? Would he rather that they suffer and die at Voldemort's hands, if it spared Draco for just a little longer?

A tiny voice inside him whispered, _Yes_, and Harry shuddered at his own selfishness. But it was true. The thought of Hermione curled on the floor among the shuffling feet of the Death Eaters, screaming in agony, her life seeping with her blood into the stones, made him shiver and sob with horror, but in that deep, secret place where absolute truth lived, he knew that he could survive it. He could pick himself up, walk out of Azkaban, and go on with his life if one of his friends lay dead in the cells behind him. But if Draco died…

Harry shied away from that thought and sent another silent cry into the darkness, where his silver-flame lover screamed and bled and died for Harry.

_Draco. My dearest dragon. My warrior angel. Don't leave me!_

A scuffling in the corridor beyond his bars brought Harry upright, eyes flying open. He felt a wave of killing cold, and the torches seemed to pale, their flames shrinking in the unnatural blackness that flowed like a wave from the approaching dementors. Harry had no wand with which to summon his patronus, but he had grown almost inured to the dementors' presence and could force himself to function in spite of them, so long as none turned their full attention on him. Squinting to focus without his glasses, he peered into the shadows and watched the procession move down the corridor toward him.

Two dementors came first, followed by two Death Eaters with torches and two more dragging a prisoner between them. Then came Voldemort himself, his red eyes glittering like frozen blood in the torchlight. More dementors, more wizards in hooded cloaks… none of it registered on Harry from the moment he laid eyes on the pale, broken figure in their midst.

It was Draco, as Harry had known it would be from the moment he heard the footsteps approach. He was naked, his body smeared with blood and filth, his long hair hanging in a snarl over his face and streaked with red. Some of his wounds Harry could see. Others were only hinted at by the crimson stains on his skin. His hands were smashed, the fingers twisted and dripping blood. Livid bruises spread over his ribs and stomach. Cuts striped his back, showing the white of bone through torn flesh. And the blood painting his thighs told Harry what had dragged at least one of those awful screams from him.

Fury swept over Harry, followed closely by a wave of cold from the dementors, as they sensed his flood of emotion and crowded forward, hungering for it. Harry closed his eyes, fighting the sickening darkness, and he heard Voldemort snarl an order in some language he did not understand. The dementor-cold abated, and Harry opened his eyes to see them falling back down the corridor, leaving only the Death Eaters, Voldemort and Draco in front of Harry's cell. He gazed despairingly at Draco's limp form, and tears burned his eyes.

"Enjoying the show, Potter?" Voldemort purred.

At the sound of Harry's name on the Dark Lord's lips, Draco stirred. He lifted his head, struggling to bear its weight and bring his eyes up. He could not pull away from his captors or stand on his own feet, but he could look into Harry's face and smile with the unbloodied half of his mouth.

Harry met his eyes and felt relief and agony go through him like a hot blade. Not caring that Voldemort was standing right there, listening, he said the first thing that came into his head – the single most important words he'd ever spoken. "I love you, Draco Malfoy."

Voldemort laughed. "Touching. Very touching. You see, I am not entirely without mercy. I bring you your bedtime toy, so you can see what has become of him. I even grant you a moment to say your goodbyes. Say goodbye to your lord and master, little worm. Say goodbye to Harry Potter."

"Harry," Draco whispered, blood bubbling from between his lips as he spoke. "I thought you were dead."

"No, he'll save me for last."

"The others?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe I'm first. That would be good."

"Don't leave me, Draco. Stay with me."

"Look for me on the other side, will you?"

Harry gritted his teeth to hold back a sob, shaking his head stubbornly, but he knew that Draco was right and his denial only wasted what few seconds Voldemort might grant them. "You won't have to wait very long." He sniffed prosaically and scrubbed a filthy hand across his eyes in a vain attempt to clear his vision. "I wish I had my glasses so I could see your face better."

"I can see you. That's enough."

"Quite enough," Voldemort hissed, lifting his wand. "Remember this sight well, Worm, because it will be your last!"

Green light spat from the wand. Harry screamed out a furious denial. Draco was flung backward by the force of the spell, his body convulsing in the hands of his captors, and blood spurted grotesquely down his face.

"_Harry!!_"

"Draco!" Harry lunged forward, reaching between the bars and only just brushing Voldemort's robe with his straining fingers. "Draco! No!"

But Draco had gone limp, his head hanging back until his hair trailed on the floor, his body utterly still. The Death Eaters dropped him. He collapsed into a broken heap in front of Harry, his face turned so that Harry could see one cheek painted bright red and one eyelid encrusted with gore.

"Oh, God, Draco."

Voldemort laughed again and motioned his servants away with a flick of his fingers. "I expect he'll live for a few minutes, at least. Time enough for you to pour out your soul to him. When I come back, we'll discuss what _you_ would prefer for your last sight."

Then Voldemort was gone, and Harry was alone with Draco. He fell to his knees, straining to reach through the bars until they cut into his shoulder and cheek, but he could not touch the other boy. Still he tried, and still he sobbed out his pleas and demands.

"Draco! Say something! You're not dead… you're not… _Bloody Hell!_" Letting his arm fall to the ground, he leaned his forehead against the bars and cried, desperately, "You can't leave until you say it! Just once! You have to say it, or I'll go mad!"

Draco neither moved nor spoke, and only the fresh blood running slowly over his skin betrayed that he lived.

"You never told me," Harry whispered, his voice thick with agony. "You never said it. I trusted that you would some day, that I couldn't love you so much and you not love me back, but you wouldn't admit it. Now you're leaving me, and I'll never know… never be sure… Draco, Draco… _Don't do this to me!_"

* * *

He awoke with a start, his heart pounding wildly in his ears, his body slick with sweat. He sprang upright in his bed and stared around him in panic and confusion. The room was dark and filled with a sleeping quiet. Little light penetrated the tall windows, but it was enough to show him his own room, and he collapsed back against the mattress with a groan of relief.

It had been a dream! Only a dream. He was safe at Hogwarts.

Of it's own volition, his hand moved to find the body lying in the bed beside him. He knew he should not wake the sleeper, but he could not restrain himself. The black terror of his dream still lingered in his mind, chilling him, poisoning his thoughts. He twisted onto his side and pushed himself up on an elbow, clutching at his companion's shoulder with less gentleness than he had intended.

He did not have to speak. The sleeper stirred, uncoiling beneath the blankets and turning onto his back. He uttered a low, sleepy grunt and yawned.

"Harry?" He lifted a hand to touch Harry's face, trailing his fingers through the tears on his cheek. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Harry clenched his teeth tightly together, fighting the wave of sickness and horror in him. After a terrible moment, he choked out, "Nothing. I just needed to make sure you're okay."

The fingers rested lightly against his mouth, sensing the frown that tightened it. "You were dreaming again, weren't you."

"Yes." _But it wasn't a dream_, Harry wanted to protest. _I may have been sleeping, but it wasn't a dream. It was a memory – the worst memory of my life – and the way you're touching my face right now proves it._

"Can I do anything?"

"Say it for me, just once?"

He smiled. "I love you, Harry."

Harry bent to drop a soft kiss on his lips, and murmured, "Thank you. Go back to sleep, Dragon."

Draco hesitated, still reading Harry's expression through his fingertips, then sighed and pulled his arm beneath the covers again. He burrowed well down in the shelter of blankets and pillows, and he closed his eyes. Harry stayed sitting up so he could peer at Draco's face, his own full of longing and misery.

The click of the door opening brought his eyes up, and he watched, without surprise, as Ron stuck his head cautiously inside. He held a candle in one hand and shielded it with the other, and his eyes were blurred with sleep. When he saw Harry sitting up, he slipped into the room and approached the bed.

"Everything okay, Harry?"

"Yes."

"I thought I heard… I mean, I thought you were…"

"I was. It's okay, Ron, really. Go back to bed."

"Malfoy?"

"He's asleep."

A muffled grunt, whether of agreement or protest Harry couldn't tell, answered him from beneath the heaped blankets.

Ron fixed Harry with a doubtful gaze, then nodded and turned to leave. "Call if you need anything."

"I won't."

The door shut behind his faithful nursemaid, and Harry sank back onto the pillow with a sigh. He was grateful for the care his teachers and friends took of him, and the days were not long past when he had been deeply grateful for the watchful presence in his room night after night. But for all that the dreams of his days in Azkaban still tormented him, he was beginning to recover both his steadiness of mind and his strength of body, and the constant attendance of his anxious, protective, over-zealous friends was becoming a burden to him.

At least they had moved his night watchman from his bedroom to the antechamber, giving him a modicum of privacy. Now, if he could just dispense with the guard all together, he might establish some sense of normalcy in his life.

Normalcy. There was a concept that had almost ceased to have meaning for him. Between the war, the many deaths that had come with it, the many deaths he had perpetrated himself, the horror of his imprisonment, the brutality of the torture he had undergone himself and witnessed happening to others, and the harsh realities that had followed him out of that waking nightmare, he did not think there was room in him for anything as calm and simple as normalcy.

Draco was the closest thing to normalcy Harry knew, and Draco was a constant reminder of all the tragedies Harry had experienced in those last, dreadful days of war and death. Draco, his beloved, his dragon, his heart, had suffered more at Voldemort's hands than any of them, and he still managed to face the world with more strength and more humor than Harry could possibly muster. He was blind, his eyes destroyed in gouts of blood by Voldemort's final spell. His hands were partially crippled, especially his left, the fingers stiff and clumsy, their movement reduced almost to nothing. The scars on his smooth, white skin would never heal. And Harry had not yet found the nerve to touch him, or Draco the physical strength to encourage him, since that day.

The love was still there. Nothing could shake it. The tenderness, only deepened by what they had endured together, and the devotion. And for Harry, the passion still burned unabated, though tempered by fear and the memory of Draco's screams echoing through the dungeons of Azkaban. Harry did not know if Draco still felt desire for him. He had not dared to ask. They were both so battered in body and mind that physical love seemed an eternity away, lost in a past that Voldemort had destroyed.

Harry closed his eyes on the warm darkness and let his mind drift into memory. He had to go back, horrible as it was, and remember the rest of it. It was the only way he could bring himself to sleep again. He had to remind himself that rescue had come, Dumbledore had come, and they had survived. All of them. Ron, Hermione, Padma Patil, Cho Chang, Neville Longbottom, Harry himself. And Draco.

* * *

Dumbledore found them there, in exactly the place that Voldemort had left them. Harry lay against the bars of his cell, one hand fallen to the floor just short of Malfoy's body. Malfoy lay in an unmoving huddle, to all appearances dead. The Headmaster took them both in with one, sweeping gaze, then he quickly unfastened his cloak and spread it over Draco.

"Harry?"

The dark head came up and dull, tear-clogged eyes fixed on him. Harry did not seem to recognize him.

"We've come to take you home, Harry."

"Home?"

"To Hogwarts. You'll be safe there." He lifted his wand and pointed it at the lock. "_Alohomora_." The door swung suddenly free. "Come, Harry."

But with the opening of his cell, Harry had only one thought. He scrambled out and fell to his knees on the stone at Draco's side, bending low over him. His hands shook as he clasped Draco's face between them, and his lips trembled as he pressed them to the other boy's. Draco's mouth was still and cold.

"Draco… Dragon, it's me…" Golden fire pulsed through Harry's veins, moving from his lips to the other boy's as they touched. "Wake up, Dragon," he urged, then he pressed another, more fervent kiss to Draco's mouth.

Dumbledore stood over them, silent and grim, while Harry poured his tears and his power into the broken body of his love, begging him over and over again not to leave. More figures gathered around them, as their rescuers opened cells and brought startled prisoners to freedom. Ron crouched at Harry's side, a hand resting gently on his back. Hermione stood with Dumbledore, weeping bitterly. The others all waited in dreadful silence for Harry to give up the struggle and realize that Malfoy was gone.

Dumbledore alone seemed to grasp that some life yet lingered in that seemingly empty shell. He held Harry's friends back with a look and gave the frantic wizard room to work his magic. For Harry alone among them had the raw power to effect a healing of this magnitude and without a wand. Harry's connection to his Slytherin lover was so strong, so perfect, that he could feed power into the other boy at a touch. And now Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the most powerful wizard of his age, was pouring everything he possessed into Draco Malfoy in a desperate bid to save him.

Harry knew nothing of the time passing or the friends watching him. He did not know when the still body under his hands began to breathe strongly or warm into something close to life. He only knew that Dumbledore was suddenly beside him, coaxing him away from Draco, speaking softly to him of leaving and of getting his beloved to the safety of Hogwarts and the care of Madam Pomfrey.

Harry obediently rose to his feet, allowing Dumbledore to lift Draco's body in his arms. Then Harry caught the other boy's hand and began, once again, to feed power into him. Locked together by flesh and magic, they walked slowly out of the bowels of Azkaban and into the fitful sunlight of a winter's day.

All the wizards Harry knew and respected were there to greet him. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Remus Lupin, McGonagall and Snape, Alastor Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Tonks… the list went on. Their looks told him that they knew most or all of what had happened to him in those dank dungeons, and that they pitied him even as they depended on him to end this appalling war once and for all. Voldemort had escaped – wounded and bereft of most of his followers, but very much alive – and every witch or wizard there knew that it was up to Harry Potter to kill him. Harry, who had no thought in his head beyond saving Draco.

Of that final battle, Harry remembered little. He did remember leaving Draco, still unconscious, in Madam Pomfrey's care and going with Dumbledore to find his enemy. He remembered blood and pain and the touch of evil on his skin. He remembered a hatred so strong that it drove all mercy, all hesitation from him. And he remembered falling nervelessly into Dumbledore's arms, hearing the old wizard tell him that it was over. Done. He could go home.

* * *

Harry was home. Draco was alive. The war was over and Voldemort was no more. All this had happened before the end of Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts, and he was still, nominally, a student at this school. But Dumbledore never once spoke of classes or exams, and when he led Harry at last to his own bed, it was not the familiar, curtained four-poster in the Gryffindor tower. It was this secluded, sheltered place, where he and Draco lived in peaceful isolation, watched by friends and healers, coddled by the motherly Mrs. Weasley and counseled by the serious Remus Lupin.

Harry, who had suffered few injuries and none of them dangerous, found his healing maddeningly slow. In the first weeks after his return, he had slept so little that he grew desperate, sometimes violent. They took Draco away to another part of the hospital wing and set Harry about with well-meaning guards. Only his desperation to have Draco near him again was able to penetrate the fog of pain and self-loathing that wrapped Harry's heart and mind. Only his need to be with his love could inspire him to throw off his despair and struggle against his demons.

Draco was with him now, and Harry was slowly winning the fight with his past. Without Draco's love, he would crumble and die. Without the gentle brush of Draco's fingers against his face and the smile in his blank, unreal eyes, he would fall into screaming madness. He loved Draco with a violence, an urgency that terrified him, sometimes. But Draco understood, and Draco would never leave him to face those demons alone. Because Draco Malfoy loved him.

"Draco," he whispered to the sleeping boy, "Draco, say it again."

Draco stirred and muttered. Then he said, grumpily, "Go to sleep."

"Please, Dragon? Just one more time?"

"What?"

"Say it for me."

With a weary sigh, Draco said, "I love you, Harry, but I bloody well won't if you keep waking me up for no good reason."

A foolish grin spread over Harry's face, and he turned onto his side to snuggle up tightly to Draco. His arms wrapped around the smaller boy, and his knees came up behind his to clasp him with his entire body. Draco gave a contented grunt and burrowed more securely against him.

Harry let him drift toward sleep for a few minutes, then he asked, in a warm whisper, "Hey, Draco, do you ever think we'll shag again?"

"Huh?"

"You and me. Like we used to. Do you think we'll ever do that?"

Draco uttered a groan of frustration and twisted half on his back to say, acidly, "Can you wait 'til tomorrow, Potter? I'm a little tired, here."

"What?" Harry demanded, his voice cracking with surprise.

"Tomorrow."

"Draco…"

"Ask me again tomorrow. And a tasteful gift would go a long way toward softening my mood. Think chocolate…"

Harry laughed breathlessly and leaned over to press a kiss to Draco's throat. Then he groaned softly, as he felt his body leap up in response. "Oh, boy. I don't think I can wait 'til tomorrow."

"Well, you have to, unless you're into necrophilia, because _I'm_ going to _sleep_."

"That's not really necrophilia…"

"Shut up, Potter."

"Good night, Dragon. Sweet dreams."

Draco muttered something foul under his breath and retreated beneath the blankets again. Harry sighed happily, pulled his warm body close, and prepared himself to dream another sort of dream all together.

**_Finis_**


End file.
